


Heat Transfer

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-25
Updated: 2009-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke takes care of himself. Sylar takes exception to his methods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Transfer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://lukexsylar.livejournal.com/profile)[**lukexsylar**](http://lukexsylar.livejournal.com/) ’s Christmas in July Exchange for [](http://hihielmo.livejournal.com/profile)[**hihielmo**](http://hihielmo.livejournal.com/). Thanks to [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) for the beta and ass-kicking.  
> 

It was more habit than necessity, Luke had discovered. He could have gotten the money some other way, especially now that he could melt anyone who messed with him into a stinking pile of goo. But it was never _just_ about the money, anyway. The sense of power Luke got from knowing he was worth something was intoxicating. People had never cared much about Luke, not even the people who were supposed to care: his dad had walked out, his mom wished he'd just go away, and even Sylar had abandoned him. Luke still had something to offer. Something people would pay for. Out here, people looked at him like they needed him, like they’d die if they didn’t get him.

  
He’d gotten along before Sylar, and he would make his own way now, too. Sylar. For a few days there, Luke had felt like he belonged. Sylar appreciated his powers, didn’t think Luke was a freak. But that hadn’t been enough, apparently, to prevent Sylar from abandoning him. Now Luke was back to looking out for himself. Alone. Unloved. Like usual.

  
New York City was new ground for Luke, but it only took a little scouting around to see where the action was going on. He talked to a few guys, professional to professional, just to check the going rate. He chose his spot carefully, nowhere he'd run into a cop, but not too close to anyone else's territory. The last thing he wanted was to end up in a fight with somebody's pimp.

  
He shoplifted what he needed for the night: tight jeans and a new t-shirt, condoms, and lube. He debated taking make-up, but decided that wasn’t the look he was going for and settled on hair gel instead. He knew what clientele his look brought in: the kind who wanted a lost little boy. His round cheeks and wide eyes guaranteed that. Sometimes that meant guys who wanted to screw him gentle and tell him everything would be okay. But most of the time it meant the kind of guys who wanted to mess him up, fuck him hard and filthy and leave him bruised and crying.

  
The rest of his stuff he stashed in a bag in an alley. No one was likely to bother it there, and even if they did, he had no possessions he couldn't replace. He was so used to having everything taken away from him that he'd never been one to cling to sentimental objects.

  
The weather was good, at least: not hot enough that he was sweating, but not so cold that he'd shiver. Shakes or sweats made johns think “drug addict” and “danger,” and Luke couldn’t afford to scare away any potential customers. He leaned against the wall of the building on the corner he'd chosen, acting as casual as he could. He was there only twenty minutes before a car pulled up. The familiar rush of adrenaline flooded him as he walked up to the passenger side window.

  
The middle-aged driver wore a suit. He had a neatly trimmed beard and sharp blue eyes that smiled cruelly. "How much?" he asked.

  
"Two hundred for an hour. Six for the whole night."

  
The man barked a laugh. "I'll give you twenty. Just a blow job."

  
Luke shrugged and walked around the car to get in. The money wasn't the point, anyway. Luke didn’t like to haggle. Let the john win the power struggle and think he could push Luke around a little. If Luke didn’t like how things turned out, he'd just roll the guy and take his wallet.

  
They drove to a deserted loading dock behind a warehouse. The man didn't even get out of the car. He just unzipped his pants and grabbed Luke by the back of the neck to pull his head down.

  
Luke tried to shrug him off--he had his professional pride, after all, and he didn't need the direction--but the man's hand stayed. Luke let himself be manhandled into position, and soon he had a mouth full of half-hard cock.

  
The noises the man made as Luke sucked him echoed too loudly in the confined space. He thrust up into Luke’s mouth, and Luke resorted to wrapping a hand around the base of the man’s dick because Christ, was the guy _trying_ to make him gag? At least this john was getting rapidly hard, which gave Luke reason to hope he’d be quick on the draw in general, and the twenty bucks would be easy money.

  
The knock on the window startled them both, sending Luke scrambling backwards and bumping his head on the steering wheel, and the man fumbling for his pants. It was just Luke’s luck to get busted by the cops while turning his first trick of the night. But then the driver’s side door flew open—which was weird, because Luke _knew_ he’d heard the doors lock—and even in the relative darkness, it took Luke only an instant to recognize the man outside.

  
Sylar dragged the protesting man out of the car, and Luke knew it was time to go.

  
He wrenched open the passenger door, stumbled out onto the pavement, and took off for the street, expecting to feel the inexorable hold of telekinesis pull him back at any moment. To his amazement, he made it down the block and into the light with no problem. He couldn’t bring himself to look back, but he hunched up his shoulders and joined the crowd on the sidewalk, his heart pounding frantically in his chest.

  
He went only a block or so before he darted down an alley and sank down into a doorway. He glanced around frantically to see if he’d been followed, but he was alone. Luke leaned his forehead against the brick archway and gulped in deep, calming breaths. His hard-on strained painfully against the tight confines of his jeans. Sylar was here in New York, and he’d come looking for Luke.

  
Luke popped the fly on his jeans and shoved a hand inside frantically as he pictured Sylar standing there outside the john’s car, tall and imposing, ready to kill that creep, kill Luke, hell, maybe destroy the whole city if that was his end game. Luke didn’t care; Sylar had come after him. He cared. Luke came in under a minute.  
\--

  
Luke tried again the next night, even though it was a Sunday. A fit older man, Luke had him down for a military type, maybe because of the buzz cut, had him on his knees in an alley. His cheeks stung from the ear-ringing slaps the man had laid on him before shoving his cock down Luke’s throat. The man’s hands tightened in Luke’s hair, jerking him forward painfully. Luke closed his eyes and let himself be used. This guy wanted Luke so badly it poured off of him like sweat, and Luke drank it up, feeling smug.

  
One especially brutal thrust had Luke gagging, tears springing to his eyes as his air was cut off. The man held him relentlessly in place. Satisfaction turned first to panic, as Luke fought for air cut off by the thick flesh in his throat, then giddy euphoria as Luke realized this guy might be lust-crazed enough to actually suffocate him. Luke took that as a compliment.

  
The hand in Luke’s hair jerked him back. He gasped for air as the john wrapped his other hand around his dick and grunted in satisfaction as he shot ropey spurts of come on Luke’s face.

  
“Damn, kid,” the guy panted, still tugging at his spent dick. “That was--.”

  
What exactly it had been Luke never found out, because the guy flew backwards, pulled off his feet, and smashed into the dumpster on the other side of the alley.

  
Sylar’s silhouette stood out plainly; the details of his face were lost in the backlight of a street lamp.

  
Luke scrambled to wipe the jizz off his face as he scuttled backward on his knees, heedless of the trash and broken glass that littered the alley. Sylar ignored him. He strode over to where Luke’s trick was struggling to get to his feet. Luke ran. The man’s screams echoed behind him.

  
Luke fell against the wall just around the corner. Between the sound of increasingly desperate screaming and a silently mouthed mantra of _I’m right here. Please come find me_ he got himself off easily.  
\--

  
Next it was one of the guys who wanted to coddle Luke. He screwed him gently on a motel bed as if he was a goddamn princess, muttering, “Such a good little boy,” in a way that Luke found more than a little disturbing. After, he wrapped a chubby arm around Luke and petted his hair until he fell asleep.

  
In the morning, Luke was neither particularly surprised nor particularly sorry to see the walls painted with the man’s blood. He was a little confused as to how he didn’t wake up as Sylar apparently tore this guy limb from limb, but at least Sylar had left him unscathed.

  
The mirror above the dresser caught Luke’s eye, and he turned to be sure of what he’d seen: on the wall above the bed where Luke had slept was the word “mine” scrawled in blood.

  
Luke was instantly, painfully hard. He flew to the bathroom, where the stench of death and blood was not so thick, but kept the door open so when he came, the mirror would show him the message Sylar had left.  
\--

  
Luke went to his usual corner, because Sylar _must_ know where that was. There was no other way he could keep finding Luke, otherwise. After he told two men who approached him to fuck off (“I don’t do threesomes. Pervs.”), and the time was getting on toward midnight, Sylar made his appearance.

  
He appeared out of the shadows, as if he was only a part of the darkness solidifying into broad shoulders, strong hands, and a furrowed brow.

  
“Hey,” Luke said. He bit his tongue immediately for a greeting so casual. He should probably show a little more self-respect. “What do you want?” he tried.

  
Sylar’s mouth turned up at one side in a sneering smile. “I think you know,” he said. His voice, which Luke hadn’t heard in so long, was dark and deep, and resonated somewhere in Luke’s chest. “You’re mine.”

  
Luke snorted in disbelief. “You left me. What the hell was I supposed to think?”

  
“You belong to me,” Sylar said simply, as if stating an inalienable truth.

  
“That a fact?” Luke backed up to lean against the wall, trying for casual detachment. He didn’t want to think about how it had felt to be left behind, but here, seeing Sylar again, _talking_ to him again, he couldn’t help the hurt that cut him. “I wouldn’t be out here selling my ass if you hadn’t dropped me by the side of the road like a dirty stray dog.”

  
“I had things to do. Things that didn’t concern you.”

  
“This doesn’t concern you anymore.” Luke turned away.

  
“Yes it does. You’re _mine_. And nobody else touches what’s mine.” Sylar grabbed Luke by the arm and turned him around with no effort at all. His eye lingered on the bruises on Luke’s neck, on his wrist, peeking out from under his clothes. Luke felt a stab of perverse pleasure when Sylar’s voice softened. “How long are you going to keep playing this game?”

  
“See, I’ve got this food and shelter habit I’ve gotta support, so I’d say I’ll be doing this a while,” he sneered, and pulled out of Sylar’s grip. “Stop killing my clients.”

  
“Fine,” Sylar said. “How much for the night?” He pulled out his wallet.

  
“Excuse me?”

  
“For the night,” Sylar repeated. “How much do you charge?”

  
“Fuck you, Sylar.” Luke started to walk away, but Sylar put a hand out and held him with invisible force. Luke stood still, unwilling to give Sylar the satisfaction of struggling, as Sylar came around to look Luke in the eye.

  
“How much are you worth?” he demanded.

  
“A thousand,” Luke snapped.

  
Sylar cocked his head to the side, and Luke blushed furiously as he remembered Sylar’s ability to detect lies. He knew Luke wasn’t worth a thousand a night. Luke wasn’t worth much at all.

  
Sylar let go of Luke’s arm, pulled a roll of cash from his wallet, and peeled off a stack of bills. He prowled forward to wrap his arms around Luke’s waist. “For tonight, you belong to me.” He slid the money into Luke’s back pocket. “Got it?”

  
Luke fought down the red-hot glow that threatened to burst from his hands. He didn’t want that from Sylar: to be nothing more than a possession, to be paid for. Sylar had never offered Luke any compensation for his loyalty before, and it stung that he felt the need to do so now. Luke didn’t want Sylar to see him the way these other men did. But he nodded anyway.

  
“Good,” Sylar said. With a flick of his wrist, the invisible force holding Luke in place vanished. “Now go get something to eat. Get yourself a room. Take a shower. Rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  
Sylar’s hands slipped from around Luke’s waist and then Sylar was walking away down the alley.

  
Luke only thought about following Sylar’s orders for a minute or so. Then he reminded himself that he wasn’t Sylar damn concubine, and went looking for trouble.  
\--

  
“Drink it, slut!” the other boys teased him.

  
Luke threw back the shot—he wasn’t sure what it was, since the blond kid had ordered this round—and he hardly coughed at all as it went down. His new friends laughed and clapped him on the back. Then one of them grabbed his hand and he was being tugged across the bar with the rest of the group.

  
Luke hadn’t had any difficulty in finding guys to hang out with once he’d started flashing money around. A few other working boys had helped Luke get into this place, and everything since had been a haze of alcohol, thumping bass rhythm, and playful groping.

  
The momentum of the bodies around Luke carried him through a doorway into a dimmer back room. The nearest guy fell onto a low couch, pulling Luke with him, and soon they were both immersed in a tangled mess of limbs as others tumbled down beside them. A curly-haired boy appeared in front of the couch, waving a baggie. “Say thank you to Luke for the bankroll, everybody,” he grinned.

  
A chorus of “Thank you Luke,” was accompanied by friendly tousling of his hair and even friendlier groping of certain areas below the belt.

  
“We now have some party to go with our play. Thanks, man.” The guy reached into the baggie and pulled out a pill, which he pressed into Luke’s mouth along with his thumb and two fingers. Too sluggish from alcohol to consider resisting, Luke swallowed the drugs dry. The curly-haired guy let Luke suck on his fingers for a few seconds, and then moved on to feed a pill to the next boy.

  
Luke settled back against the couch, pleasantly stupefied, and watched the ritual as everyone in the group eagerly sucked down the offered drugs. Luke thought about how little he actually knew of the social lives of his peers. He’d never really fit in or felt at home with any group of people, and he didn’t belong with this group, either. They were as fucked up as Luke, in many ways, but they didn’t know how special Luke was. They didn’t know he could cook a frozen burrito without a microwave, or that he’d melted the internal organs of a covert government agent, or that sometimes when Sylar fucked him, Luke’s fingers burned whorls into his lover’s skin that made Sylar scream but disappeared in seconds.

  
The drugged-out boys were touching each other, and touching Luke. His skin felt tight, like heat might bubble out of it at any moment. Somebody slid a hand down the back of Luke’s pants to cup his ass. Warmth pooled in his groin as other hands brushed against him, grabbed him. His skin felt polarized, electric. When a hand crept up under Luke’s shirt, he gasped at the sensation. Moans and grunts and labored breathing swelled around him, and suddenly Luke was assaulted by a nauseatingly vivid mental image: this couch soaked with blood, all the men he’d touched lying dead, throats slit, when Sylar found out. Or worse, that there would be no blood. That Sylar would give Luke up as hopeless and not come back.

  
“I gotta go,” he muttered. Luke disentangled himself from the mass of hopped-up, writhing party boys to the accompaniment of disappointed groans and a few parting gropes. Luke felt feverish and lightheaded. He fumbled his way out of the dimly lit room and emerged into the flash and thump of the bar proper. A corridor lead away from the noise to the back of building, and Luke followed it gratefully. He pushed his way out the emergency exit and into the stinking alley.

  
His skin tingled, so Luke let off a short pulse of pent-up energy to relieve some of the tension. The flash just made him dizzy. He stumbled a few steps toward the row of dumpsters, and then slumped to his knees, retching. All the alcohol he’d consumed on an empty stomach—more alcohol than he’d ever tried in his life—made its reappearance on the ground. Luke crawled away from the mess, still dizzy, head reeling. The last thing he saw before he passed out was the looming shadow of a tall, dark man.  
\--

  
Luke drifted out of sleep slowly, reluctantly. His temples throbbed mercilessly, and his mouth tasted terrible. He pried open his eyes to take stock of the situation. The room that swam into focus around him was clean and better smelling than any place he’d been in weeks. Luke was lying in the middle of a king-sized bed and, puzzlingly, he was alone.

  
He sat up gingerly, holding his head. “Hello?” he called hoarsely. No answer came. So some john had brought him here and left him? No, that couldn’t be right. Through the haze and blur of his hangover, Luke tried to piece together the events of last night. He remembered the bar, the drugs, the alley. Other than that, nothing. He threw off the covers and found that he was naked. He was also free of sweat, grime, and the neon stamp the bar’s bouncer had pressed onto his hand last night. He ran a hand through his hair: it was fluffy and disheveled, clear of the greasy product he’d rubbed into it before going out yesterday. Apparently he’d had a shower.

  
“Hello?” he called again. Still nothing. He crawled to the edge of the bed, and from that vantage point he saw a note lying on top of the dresser. He recognized the elegant, slanting handwriting. He’d seen it before and resisted the urge to tease Sylar that his handwriting looked like a girl’s. It was never a good idea to tease Sylar.

  
Luke slid out of bed, padded over to the dresser, and picked up the letter.

  
 _Tonight. Same time, same place._

  
Luke crumpled the note in his hand and went to look for his clothes.  
\--

  
Luke thought about not going back to his corner. He could find somewhere else to peddle his ass, even in another city if he had to. He left the hotel only after the cleaning crew had come to knock twice, and ducked his head as he slunk through the sumptuous lobby in his scruffy jeans and too-tight t-shirt that stank of last night’s sweat. He emerged, squinting, into the hazy sunlight of a summer afternoon in the city, and looked around. No one on the street paid him any attention. Of course, Sylar wasn’t standing out there waiting for him. If Sylar hadn’t killed him by now, Luke didn’t think he would. Last night he’d been at Sylar’s mercy, dead to the world, and Sylar had bathed him and put him to bed. Warmth twisted in Luke’s stomach when he thought of that, so he let a little heat radiate from his hands to relieve his tension.

  
Luke wanted to think, and he always thought best when he was on the move, when he didn’t feel trapped by walls or responsibilities or family. The city had plenty of streets, so he walked, choosing sidewalks dimmed by deepening shadows of the evening.

  
All the money Sylar had given him was gone, so he shoplifted some aspirin and a bottle of water before he let his feet carry him to his neighborhood. The impassive façades of shuttered warehouses and the empty windows of apartments confronted him. He looked up and down the street, taking in a city just now beginning to twinkle with the neon trappings of nighttime. The city stared back at him, brimming with unappealing promises: another night on his knees, a hundred dollars in his pocket, dinner snatched from a street vendor, dancing and doing drugs with strung-out twinks who didn’t give a crap about him, rotting in the gutter where no one knew or cared that Luke had an amazing ability and was capable of so much more.

  
Luke went to his corner. He watched the few people who passed, wondering how he might make his living shoplifting or robbing them. He wondered if he could make people scared of him, but decided that it’d be a hard sell, the way he looked. They didn’t know he’d killed a man, melted his internal organs with a wave of his hand, all to save the life of a serial killer. No one would think Luke was capable of that. They didn’t understand what Luke was, and they never would.

  
Sylar pulled up just after sunset and rolled down the passenger side window. Luke imagined himself back at that roadside hot dog place weeks ago, waiting for Sylar to come back, cursing his name. How often he’d imagined Sylar driving up to him, just like this, and wanting him back.

  
Luke sauntered over, leaned lazily against the car and put on what he hoped was a cool voice. “Think you can afford me, old man?”

  
“Get in the car, Luke.”

  
Half a dozen smart-ass retorts danced on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them all. He got in the car.  
\--

  
A hotel was usually good enough, so Luke had no idea why Sylar had gone to the trouble of cruising through suburban New Jersey streets until he’d seen a house whose owners were on vacation. How Sylar knew that was a mystery, and his explanation—“I touched the mailbox. They’re gone for another week.”—didn’t enlighten Luke much. Still, Luke wasn’t complaining that Sylar had led him right upstairs to the master bedroom and stripped them both.

  
Now Luke tightened his grip on the headboard and tried not to make any more of those frantic, high-pitched whines Sylar had been dragging out of him for the past ten minutes. The man had always been perverse; Luke suspected that if Sylar knew how much Luke was enjoying this, he might stop.

  
Sylar’s mouth on him was too perfect to believe. Nothing that had been done to Luke in the past week had reached inside him the way this did. Luke thought it was enough that Sylar would do this for him, even if he didn’t really care, even if he left again tomorrow.

  
As if Sylar had read Luke’s mind, he pulled away, leaving his hands in place to weight down Luke’s hips and keep him still. “Tell me.”

  
Luke licked his lips, stalling. “Tell you what?”

  
“Tell me what you did. Tell me why you fucked them.”

  
Somewhere on the way from Luke’s brain to his mouth, the smart reply he’d prepared became a simple confession. “You left me.”

  
“I’m here now.” Sylar’s fingers tightened on Luke’s skin. For a moment, Luke thought Sylar was going to hurt him. The idea didn’t bother him, and he didn’t flinch. He simply waited. “If you leave your house, does it mean someone else can just walk in and take it?”

  
Luke laughed. “It does if you’re us.”

  
Sylar darted forward to sink his teeth into Luke’s hip, and Luke hissed in pain if not in protest. Sylar bit down on the skin for a moment, not hard enough to break it, but certainly hard enough to bruise, then let go. He licked over the spot, as if to soothe any hurt. “Property, Luke. A man has to be strong enough to hold on to what’s his. You belong to me, and no one is going to take what’s mine.” He slid his cheek down Luke’s leg, scraping his skin with rough stubble, and found another spot to bite, just at the juncture of Luke’s thigh.

  
Luke’s cock twitched in interest, and Luke shifted his grip on the headboard. “Why do you care all of a sudden?”

  
Sylar snapped his head up to glare at Luke. Then he slid up Luke’s body and bit into his side, leaving a perfect set of pink indentations in the delicate skin. Luke gritted his teeth, but didn’t resist. He blinked at the marks, which were sure to leave a spectacular bruise tomorrow: tangible, lasting evidence that Sylar wanted him.

  
“I don’t share,” Sylar hissed. “I thought you’d have figured that out by now.”

  
“You killed those guys.”

  
“They touched you.”

  
“So? I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit around waiting. I had to take care of myself.”

  
“Obviously you have no idea how to take care of yourself.”

  
“I know what I’m doing.” Luke let go of the headboard and tried to shove Sylar off of him, pushing and emanating enough power from his hands to hurt the man. He wanted to mark him, to leave his claim on Sylar, burned into his flesh the way Sylar was burned into his, bruises and bite marks be damned. But Sylar would not be deterred. He pounced on Luke, heedless of his attack, pinned down his shoulders, and claimed his mouth in a brutal kiss.

  
“You’re mine,” Sylar growled. “You don’t get to give away what’s mine.”

  
“Wasn’t giving it away,” Luke muttered. “I was selling it.”

  
“Never again. We’ll have to make sure everyone knows who you belong to.” He trailed a hand down Luke’s body, seemingly unconcerned about another attack. His hand wandered to Luke’s cock, gave it a quick jerk, and then slid further back to prod a finger against Luke’s hole. “Who _do_ you belong to, Luke?”

  
As much as Luke wanted Sylar to fuck him—as much as he knew he’d settle for anything he could get from Sylar—he just couldn’t shut up. “I don’t _belong_ to anyone.”

  
“Huh.” Sylar reached out, and a small bottle flew to him from somewhere in the room. He drizzled lube onto his hand as he spoke. “Maybe we need to get you a collar.”

  
Luke bit back a moan at that. He closed his eyes, and then Sylar’s hand was back at his ass, fingers slick now, pushing two inside at once.

  
“Would that keep their hands off you? Do you even care?”

  
“Uh…” Luke couldn’t think to respond to that, because Sylar’s fingers were inside of him, twisting and sliding in and out, and all the blood in his body seemed to have relocated to his cock.

  
“You’re not a whore, Luke.” Sylar leaned down and bit Luke’s shoulder, and at the same time slid another finger into him.

  
Luke squirmed, resisting the urge to fuck himself back on those fingers. He grabbed the headboard again, sinking heat and energy into the wood as it poured out of him. “I am a whore,” he panted. “You don’t know shit about me, Sylar. I do what I have to.”

  
“Oh, I know.” Sylar shoved his fingers as deep as they could go, and Luke drew in a sharp breath at the discomfort. “That’s why I have to keep an eye on you.” He pulled his fingers out and slid them back in again, slowly. “On second thought, maybe a collar’s not enough. Maybe you need a tattoo. Right here.” He pressed his teeth into Luke’s chest, just above his heart.

  
Luke couldn’t help the moan that slipped from him. He pushed down onto Sylar’s hand, and tried unsuccessfully to buck up against Sylar, to get some friction against his leaking cock.

  
“No,” Sylar snapped. Telekinesis pinned Luke’s shoulders down and lifted his legs, and then Sylar was pulling out his fingers and pushing in his cock, sliding slick and easy into Luke and kissing him in short, sharp movements like blows.

  
“I want them to smell me on you,” Sylar panted into Luke’s mouth between kisses. “I want them all to know you belong to me. No one’s going to touch you again.”

  
Luke’s hands slipped off the headboard and he clutched at Sylar, pulling his as close as this position would allow. He leaned his head back, baring his throat, and Sylar took the invitation, biting at Luke’s neck and marking him, claiming him, declaring his ownership to the world.

  
Luke held on, one hand on Sylar’s shoulder, one on the small of his back as Sylar pounded into him. Sylar wrestled a hand between them to grab Luke, his still-slick hand pumping him roughly in rhythm with the thrusts. Luke gulped in air as he rode the cresting wave of sensation, pain and power and pleasure all wrapped up in a beautiful sweaty, gasping, glorious package. His hands glowed with energy, and Sylar screamed as he came inside Luke and brought Luke over the edge with him, wrapped up together in agony and ecstasy.

  
Sylar let Luke down gently, and Luke slid bonelessly into the soft mattress of this house’s owners. Sylar collapsed beside him, breathing hard in the aftermath of his exertions. Luke lay still for a few minutes, cataloguing each ache and bruise, counting the badges of Sylar’s claim on him. He didn’t know if this was enough to hold Sylar to him, but the very fact that Sylar had left his mark was enough to give Luke hope. After a while, he turned over and propped his head on his hand to watch Sylar where he laid sprawled face-down beside him.

  
“Sylar.”

  
“What?”

  
“Your back.” Smudged outlines of Luke’s hands were burned into Sylar’s back, one high and one low, marring the perfect expanse of pale skin.

  
“I know.”

  
“Can’t you heal that?”

  
Sylar didn’t turn his head or look up at Luke. “I could,” he said.

  
Luke ran a finger down Sylar’s back, tracing over the burns, and thought about that. “I don’t need a collar, or a tattoo,” he said at last.

  
“I know.”

  
“But if you want me to…”

  
Sylar shifted at last, rolling over Luke and pinning him down. “Just tell me,” he said.

  
Luke wrapped his arms around Sylar, and he imagined the outline of the still-present burns felt hot to the touch. “I’m yours,” he said.

  
“I know.”


End file.
